


all of your demons

by WitchoftheWaste



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Antiva, Antivan Crows, Canon Era, Crow Training, Established Relationship, M/M, Zevran's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-10
Updated: 2015-10-10
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:51:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4950721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WitchoftheWaste/pseuds/WitchoftheWaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alistair asks Zevran about his Crow training, and Zevran reveals more than he thought he would...</p>
            </blockquote>





	all of your demons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonflies_and_Katydids](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to the amazing Dragonflies_and_Katydids, because she kept me well stocked with Alistair/Zevran while I was editing (and dithering about) this, and she was such a darling when my friend, Dione, asked her a bit of a nosy question, partly on my behalf. Say hello to the wife for me, my dear!
> 
> So, I really wanted to write something about Zev's past, and I guess I've been reading too much Alistair/Zevran lately, because it somehow went that way instead...
> 
> Okay, so there are probably quite a few triggering things in this fic. We've got beatings (NOT in a sexy way), briefly mentioned rackings, psychological torture, lots of killing... To be perfectly honest, I wasn't sure if it should be Mature or Teen and Up, but I'm going with Mature, just in case. 
> 
> As always, this fic is unbeta'd so any mistakes are my own; I hope you enjoy!

Fingers trailed lightly along his back, lips on his neck, hard chest against his shoulder... The room smelt of spices and sweat and sex. Zevran lay with his head buried in the pillow, too tired to talk, too awake to sleep. Alistair seemed less sleepy, his hand brushing along one of the scars on Zevran's back. He didn't want to think about that, and twitched, burying his face deeper into the pillow.

'I know this kind of scar.' Alistair's voice was soft, barely above a whisper.

'Do you now?' Zevran tried for lightness in his tone, turning to face Alistair; anything to get those hands off his back.

Alistair glared ever so slightly. 'I'm not an idiot. Those are the kind of scars you get from a beating. You didn't get them in any fair fight.'

Curse this beautiful boy with his honest eyes and fumbling hands. How could he be flippant and insincere when Alistair was looking at him like that?

'No, I did not.' He hesitated. 'The Crows train their recruits a certain way. It is quite lenient really. I've heard that slaves in Tevinter get far worse beatings. You see, a Crow recruit can't be whipped so hard that they can't walk, because then, what would be the point of the training?'

'The Crows did this to you?' Alistair sounded so horrified that Zevran almost turned away in irritation.

'It's nothing to be ashamed of,' he said. Maybe it wasn't, but that did not mean he wasn't embarrassed. It should be nothing, but it wasn't. 'Perfectly normal practice in Antiva.'

Alistair closed his eyes in... Was that pain? Pain at what? He'd never thought Alistair of all people would be so hard to read. 'Tell me about the Crows,' Alistair said, without opening his eyes, as though it hurt him to look.

Zevran sighed. A little deflection would serve here. 'I've already told you a great deal, mi querido.' He dropped a kiss on Alistair's forehead.

Alistair opened his eyes, slowly, so that Zevran felt a flutter in his stomach. What unfair eyelashes the man had. 'Tell me about before you became a Crow properly,' Alistair said. 'Tell me about the training.'

Zevran pursed his lips. Alistair did deserve the truth, after all. 'All right, mi paloma. I will tell you. But I can't promise you will like it.'

'I can promise I won't like some of it,' Alistair muttered.

 _Brasca,_ he was going to regret this.

* * *

 

The fist slammed him to the floor, face down in the dust. For a moment he could not breathe, the dirt invading his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The world swam; he must get up. It wasn't like he hadn't felt pain before...

_A tiny chubby boy, short silver hair sticking up, was playing in the street outside one of Antiva City's many whorehouses. He had set up some manner of game that was inscrutable to adult eyes, but made perfect sense in his own mind. Run here, run there, laugh with delight at his own abilities... But a cruel stone tripped him and he fell, grazing his knee. A high wail rose from his throat, and the woman in the see-through dress ran from the doorway to sweep him in her arms._

_'Zev, Zev, it's all right. Maraya is here. Maraya will always be here.' She held the squalling boy tight in her arms, and he breathed in the sweet scent of cheap perfume and sweat, comforting and sure. She pulled back and checked him over, tutting at the tear in his tunic._

_'See, darling? It's just a little bruise. You are all right. See, my little warrior?' She was right, and as all little children do, the moment he realised he was fine, that his wound was not so great and terrible as he had thought, he wrapped his fat arms around her neck and kissed her cheek, then went back to his game._

But Maraya was not here, Maraya had not always been there for him, and he rose from the floor, kicking his opponent's legs from under him.

He got in some good hits, a kick in the stomach, a blow to the chest, but then the other man was up again. Zevran threw a punch; it was blocked and riposted. He ducked and hit again. This time his fist connected with the man's jaw, and he heard a sickening crunch. But he had been careless; his fist had been wrong, off balance, and he felt the skin across his knuckles split.

_He should not have looked. Sofia and Lydia had tried to block him from looking through the door. They were whispering, talking, wringing their hands and tearing at their dresses, but they had not done anything, and he wanted Maraya. She had not come to feed him honey and milk and tell him a story as always. He wanted Maraya, and he would go and get her. He ducked between Lydia's legs and rushed into the room behind her._

_It was a wreck. A bowl of luscious grapes had been overturned, a piece of red wallpaper was stripped from the wall, feathers from a split pillow fell like snow, but Zevran barely registered these signs of destruction. He had eyes only for the body lying on the bed. Bruised, swollen, bleeding, barely recognisable. It was Maraya. His Maraya._

_He screamed._

_It was his fault. She always called him her little warrior, her knight in shining armour, but he had not been there for her. He had been whining that she was not with him, when he should have been protecting her._

_Zevran slammed his fist into the red wall, red like her blood. He cried out as his knuckles split, and then cried harder still as he realised how selfish he was being, crying for his own pain, rather than Maraya's suffering._

_The women dragged him away, kicking and screaming. The next day, the room was repapered and a new whore was taken on._

Zevran's faulty punch had cost him. He rolled away from his opponent's next attack, a practised move that was supposed to leave him standing behind his enemy, but the man was surprisingly fast for someone of his size and he had grabbed at Zevran's throat before he could finish the movement.

Fingers clawing at his adversary's hands as they began to squeeze, legs kicking frantically, and the other man's eyes, blank, devoid of anger even, just emotionless and cold.

No memories came this time, just an overwhelming terror that could not be crushed. He struggled and struggled, but each kick was futile, and he could not breathe, could not think.

And then, with the ingenuity of true panic, he aimed straight at the other man's groin, pulled back his leg and kicked _hard._ The man cried out and let go of him, doubling up in pain. Zevran fell to the floor, but he was up again, faster this time, more focused. The fight was his now, he knew it, he knew -

The instructor clapped her hands. Zevran froze; the other man stopped swearing.

'Slapdash.' Her voice was cold, hard, colder and harder than his adversary's eyes, and Zevran held his body rigid to suppress a shiver. 'Your reaction times were slow, your mind was elsewhere, your attacks were sloppy and you allowed your opponent to get you by the throat.' She shook her head at him. 'I am very disappointed, trainee.' She shook her head again, as though Zevran had been caught stealing a cookie, as opposed to winning a fight. He knew he could have won it.

'Madam, I-'

A blow hit him hard across the face, then the other side. The instructor's rings scratched and pulled at the skin on his cheek. A trickle of warm blood slid down his jaw.

'Trainee, you are no one. You have been told to refer to yourself in the third person. Do so.'

I am someone, he thought stubbornly, jutting out his chin. I am Zevran, born in a whorehouse; I am Zevran, who wants to join the Dalish; I am Zevran, who instead will be the bringer of death.

'This trainee asks this instructor for permission to forgo the customary punishment.' He kept his voice neutral. She could not be allowed to sense his defiance.

'Permission denied, trainee. Ten lashes, and put some vinegar on the whip this time. The trainee has been wilful and stubborn.'

* * *

 

'That's awful.' Alistair buried his face in Zevran's shoulder. 'I could kill them.'

Zevran gave him a small smile, and a very Antivan shrug. 'What good would that do? Really, those were the good lessons.' He reached out and captured Alistair's wandering hand in his own, turning it over and tracing the lines of his palm with a fingertip. He could not look Alistair in the eyes, not when they talked about these things.

'How old were you?'

'Oh, that was a good four years after I was bought, I think. I must have been about eleven or twelve. I went through a rebellious stage around then.'

'So young...' Alistair trailed a hand along Zevran's cheek, and for a moment, he flinched at the touch.

'You know,' Alistair said quietly, 'Templars are taught that loss of self too. Not like Seekers, but we recruits had to refer to ourselves in the third person. It was one of the reasons I was happy to leave.'

Zevran looked up at him in surprise. 'I thought Templars spent the whole time abusing mages, and did little else.'

Alistair's smile was only a little strained. 'I think that's only for complete initiates, rather than trainees.' He paused for a moment, propping his chin on Zevran's shoulder, his eyes following their hands. 'Now, go on and tell me something else. Did you have tests that you had to pass?'

Zevran swallowed hard. The first memories had been easier than he had thought, but this would be harder. Going further back was always harder. Best case scenario, he would have to deal with unending pity; worst, a look of disgust on Alistair's face. He closed his eyes and steeled himself.

'Well, we had regular exams, if you can believe such a thing...'

* * *

 

The room was black. So black that Zevran could not see a hand in front of his face, could not see the boy next to him, but could only hear the panicked breathing of the children around him. They knew why they were there. They knew that only one trainee would leave the room.

There were four of them, including himself. A tiny quiet girl, whose name Zevran did not know, a heavy set boy, who pinched and pulled and bullied anyone smaller than himself and the boy next to Zevran, whose hand he reached out to hold onto.

The boy called himself 'Rafael', though Zevran thought perhaps that was not his real name. It did not matter to him; no one really had proper names here. Rafael's face was one Zevran knew well. He knew the smooth coffee coloured skin of his shoulders, his deep brown eyes, so dark they were almost black. He knew the dark curling hair that fell into his eyes, his long sooty lashes that brushed against his cheeks. Yes, Zevran knew Rafael well. He hoped that one day they would be lovers, romantic assassins bound together to fight, maybe even to rebel against the Crow Masters. He took a moment to clasp Rafael's hand tighter, running a thumb over the back of his hand.

_Everything hurt. Not just his back, where the whip had made its mark and pieces of skin lay torn to shreds; he couldn't put a shirt on, as the fabric rubbed on the raw skin to the point of agony. Not just his jaw, where he had been hit in one of the training sessions. Not just his joints, which had been pulled in 'physical endurance' training. He always did badly in physical endurance. No, everything hurt._

_It was his eighth birthday, and he had been with the Crows for a year. A Crow was not supposed to have a birthday. He knew this, but he remembered. He remembered the honey cake baked by Lydia and Harpalos, a sleepy lidded boy prostitute, who he had wanted to be when he grew up. He remembered being bounced on someone's knee and giggling._

_And now there was nothing. One of the instructors had caught him boasting about his birthday, and that was it. Confined to his room, no food. He ran a hand through his hair, a surprisingly adult gesture for one so small._

_Slowly, he became aware of a scratching at the door, followed by a clicking sound, and suddenly, the door opened. Ignoring the pain in his back, Zevran got up fast, looking for a dagger, a knife, anything. Of course, there was nothing; recruits weren't allowed weapons in their rooms._

_The boy who entered the room was small though, maybe a year younger than Zevran himself, and he decided quickly that if it wasn't for his back, he could take him in a fight, but as it was..._

_'Shh, it's all right.' The boy approached him as he might a wild animal, and one half of Zevran was deeply offended, and the other thrilled that he was a creature to be feared. 'I've brought you some food, see?' The boy held out a small crust of stale bread. It was practically a feast; bread was the first thing to get stolen by the larger boys._

_Zevran looked at the bread suspiciously. Poison was possible, but why? And how did such a small boy get a piece of bread? 'Why?' he said quietly, backing away._

_The other boy smiled gently, and for a moment it reminded Zevran of Harpalos' smile. 'Because I thought you might be hungry.'_

_Zevran kept backing away. 'How did you get in?'_

_The boy showed his other hand. He was holding what looked like three hair pins. 'Picked the lock. Training is good for something.'_

_That was even more suspicious. 'Why did you come?'_

_The boy gave him a matter of fact look. 'Because it's your birthday. No one should be alone on their birthday.'_

_The bread was distracting, and Zevran's stomach was so empty. Yesterday even his gruel had been stolen... He reached out before he could stop himself, grabbing the hunk of bread out of the boy's hand. He tried to take delicate bites, but -_

_'Slow down,' said the boy. 'If you eat it that fast, it'll come right back up again. Believe me, I used to work in a baker's.' Zevran smiled slightly at the image of this beautiful brown boy with a smudge of flour on his nose._

_'The instructors won't find me for a few hours...' And, as though it was the most normal thing in the world, the boy wrapped an arm around Zevran's waist, rested a head on his shoulder, and said, 'I'm Rafael, by the way.'_

But there wasn't time to think about that now. Zevran was moving, and he did not need to see, because he could hear, and for a moment it felt like he was on top of the world. The other boy, the burly one, went down fast. Zevran was on top of him, and he almost reached for a nonexistent dagger, but he had been sent in without one, so he put a hand out, feeling for the other boy's temple. If hit hard enough, he would be dead, or at least unconscious. This would not be his first kill, but this one would be worth far more than the others.

_'What are you looking at?'_

_Zevran started and almost put the gloves behind his back, before he realised that there was no point. The boy had already seen. Zevran had only seen him a couple of times, and did not know his name, but he knew better than to trust anyone in the Crows._

_'A pair of gloves?' The other boy sounded more confused than mocking. Perhaps there was little danger after all. 'You know we are not allowed to have personal items..'_

_Zevran crossed his arms defiantly. 'And what of it? Have you never broken the rules yourself?'_

_The boy sat down next to him, offering him a smile. After a moment, Zevran returned it. The boy was not pretty, but at least he wasn't trying to take the gloves. 'I was just surprised,' said the boy. 'I'm sorry. If they mean a lot to you, that is.'_

_'They do.' He did not elaborate._

_'I'm Stepan.' The boy - Stepan - stuck out a hand in greeting, and Zevran found himself taking it._

_They talked all night about home, about their lives before, about what they wanted to do if they ever left the Crows... In the morning, Zevran was almost too happy to notice that the gloves were missing. Almost._

_Stepan laughed at his frantic questions. 'Those old things? I told you that it was against the rules. So is friendship. And names. And talk of home. And not wanting to be a Crow.' He grinned and waved the gloves in Zevran's face. He snatched at them, but Stepan was taller and he held them out of Zevran's reach. Stepan shook his head. 'You have broken a lot of rules, trainee.'_

_Before Zevran could say a word, or jump on him, an instructor's voice interrupted his train of thought. She must have entered completely silently, but he spared only a moment for envy, before fury and despair overwhelmed him._

_'Congratulations, recruit,' she said to Stepan, taking the gloves from him. 'You have just passed your first deception test.' Stepan - if that was really his name - smiled triumphantly at Zevran, before hurrying out of the room. The instructor turned to him. 'Trainee, you are sentenced to solitary confinement for five days with only water and your regular food ration will be smaller for two months.' She paused and examined the gloves for a moment._

_Zevran put his hands behind his back and tried to look humble and penitent. 'This trainee apologises to this instructor.' If he could charm her, look sorry enough, maybe she would give him back the gloves._

_'Apologises?' she snarled, and for a moment actual anger bloomed on her face. 'The Crows are not broken slaves, boy. They are assassins. We do not want sorry. We want competent and unforgiving.'_

_Unforgiving? He could do that. He snapped his head up and looked the instructor straight in the eyes. 'This trainee requests permission to have his possessions back.' He indicated the gloves._

_'You have no possessions, trainee.' And slowly, painfully, each thread lighting one by one, she burned them. Not in a fire, for the trainees were not allowed fires in their rooms, but in the candle._

_Zevran did not cry when she did it. He held back the tears until he was shut in the blackness of solitary confinement and then, then he howled and sobbed until his head ached with tears._

The boy - Stepan - was trying to get Zevran's hand away, trying to get himself off the floor, but it was too late. Zevran had spent too long in solitary confinement, far longer than Stepan ever had. He knew the dark and was no longer afraid of it. The blow to Stepan's temple was so fast and so hard that Zevran only had a moment to feel the boy's skull actually shift under his knuckles, before Stepan went limp.

He smiled.

Meanwhile, the girl seemed to be tussling with Rafael, or at least, that was what Zevran could hear. He clambered off Stepan's body, and stood for a moment, listening. A cry of pain from the girl indicated that she was losing, and instead of joining the fight, Zevran crept back against the wall.

He knew that only one of them could leave, and yet he did not want to kill Rafael, who had shown him nothing but kindness. Still, if he delayed too long, then Rafael would be sure to kill him. He did not think this because he did not trust his friend, but simply because it would be impossible for him not to. The Crow masters were excellent at manipulating their trainees, and Zevran was sure that there was no way they would not kill each other.

A sickening crunch issued from the other end of the room, followed by heavy breathing, and suddenly, Zevran felt a hand on his arm. His training kicked in, and he twisted, throwing the owner of the hand to the floor.

'Stop; it's me!' The voice was Rafael's and Zevran could not restrain a smile, as he reached out a hand to help him up.

'That was over quickly,' he said with an arrogant smile that he reserved for situations of discomfort. 'The boy over there was useless.'

Rafael rested his head on Zevran's shoulder for a moment, and Zevran had to stop himself from stiffening and flinching away. This boy was going to kill him or he was going to kill this boy.

'The girl was harder, but then again, I don't have your skills.' Rafael's voice was wistful, and it hurt to hear.

 _I am no one; I am no one but a Crow and I must do what a Crow would do._ And yet he did not do it.

'Do not be silly, my dear Raf. We both know that's not true.'

Zevran felt Rafael's smile against his shoulder, and he closed his eyes in pain. If he did not now, perhaps it would not hurt so much?

Quickly, so quickly that his attack was clumsy, he reached an arm around Rafael's neck, and for a second he felt the boy relax into it, so trustingly, and he loosened his grasp for a moment. That moment cost him, and before he realised what was happening, he was flying to the floor and he could feel a small sure foot pressing into his arm.

'You fool,' came Rafael's voice. 'We could have rebelled against the Masters. We could have been free.'

Zevran smiled bitterly. 'I used to think that too, but I am a Crow, Raf. I always will be. A machine does not rebel.' He was reaching for Rafael's ankle as he spoke, but he was too slow, because Raf put all his weight on that one foot, and Zevran screamed in pain as he felt one of the bones in his arm snap.

A hasty trail of thoughts ran through his mind - _owOW-move; ignore the pain; move MOVE -_ and he really did grab Rafael's ankle this time and pulled him down to the floor with a thud.

Zevran's broken arm wobbled, and he came to the strange realisation that the only thing holding him together was muscle and skin. He ignored the pain as best he could, scrunching up his face in concentration, as he braced a knee on Rafael's neck. Raf knew what he was trying to do and was scrabbling and clawing. Long scratches along Zevran's thigh, and half moon marks on his calf, but it did not matter, because he had his good arm up on Rafael's face and with a sharp movement his twisted his wrist.

The snap was deafening in that quiet room. Zevran rolled off the corpse and lay there next to him. His arm felt like it was on fire, the pain clouding his mind, but a fresh wave of something else was spreading through him. In that hasty scuffle, he had not thought, just as Crow would not think, and it had not made him happy. He had killed his only friend. How proud the Masters would be. The pain of his arm was nothing.

He reached for Raf's hand, and one last time, clasped it in his own.

* * *

 

Zevran turned away from Alistair, his face to the wall. So quietly that Alistair could barely hear it, he whispered, 'Do you hate me now, caro?'

Alistair reached out and pulled Zevran to face him. 'Zev,' he said, his voice heartbreakingly earnest. 'Of course, I don't hate you.' He closed his eyes for a moment. 'You know that I'm not good at saying things, but- but the only thing I feel is overwhelming sadness over the things you have been through, and most importantly,' he continued quickly, as Zevran felt a small niggle of irritation at the thought of anyone feeling sorry for him. 'Most importantly, I am proud of how strong you have been. Most people would, I don't know, be horrible to everyone or something, but not you.'

He smiled so softly and sweetly that Zevran's heart ached and he could not resist the impulse to kiss him, tenderly and without a show of skill. _With this one kiss, I'm giving you my heart._

And later that night, when Alistair gasped out those fatal words, 'I love you,' there was no painful silence, just the only reply that could be given.

**Author's Note:**

> My Spanish is non-existent, so all the Spanish is entirely from Google Translate. DA needs to get some characters who speak German or Ancient Greek!  
> Meanings:  
>  _mi querido_ \- my dear  
>  _mi paloma_ \- my dove  
>  _caro_ \- precious/dear
> 
> The title is from the song 'Demons' by Fatboy Slim.
> 
> Comments and kudos are very much appreciated!


End file.
